


now you're gone (the city's down a number)

by Tab_oo



Category: Tiny Meat Gang (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2020-06-02 08:23:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19437625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tab_oo/pseuds/Tab_oo
Summary: He leaves the moment he turns eighteen.Packs up his bags, leaves a concise note on the fridge, and steps out the door.Takes a breath.And starts walking.It’s nothing like what they think. Nothing at all.They keep searching.They keep searching, and Cody is weary.There isn’t always a reason.---or, short homeless au where cody can't handle the pressure of the future and noel works at the starbucks he visits one day.





	now you're gone (the city's down a number)

**Author's Note:**

> two disclaimers on this one  
> remember that everybody written about in this fic are real people. respect them and their respective irl relationships. these are mostly just characters to project content onto.
> 
> homelessness isn't the 'edgiest' topic out there, but it's still VERY SERIOUS. i don't mean any ill will towards anyone and don't mean to offend by writing this drabble. i apologize if this makes you uncomfortable & i definitely understand if it does;; please click off if so.

He leaves the moment he turns eighteen.

Packs up his bags, leaves a concise note on the fridge, and steps out the door.

Takes a breath.

And starts walking.

It’s nothing like what they think. Nothing at all.

They keep searching.

He knows how their eyes trail thoughtfully after him, careful and attentive and curious. Never quite willing enough to cross over any lines, never quite disregarding enough to leave him be. They’re looking for reasons, staring at a one-way mirror they think is glass.

Cody’s okay with leaving them in the dark. He’s okay with letting them search for a reason.

It’s not his parents. They’re kind and quiet and caring and all he could ask them to be. They’re family - there are squabbles, meaningless and light, but they’re family, so it’s never enough to drive him red-eyed out the front door. It’s not his parents. 

They keep searching, and Cody is weary.

There isn’t always a reason.

\---

He’s tired.

He works twelve hours straight, dressed up like a doll in bright clothing and even brighter smiles. It’s okay at first - it’s okay because it works, pays the rent of the tiny room he rents off of an old Russian man. 

It’s okay because when he’s done serving fake food to bright-eyed children and bitter middle-aged women he can come home to dinners wrapped in tinfoil and a four-inch computer thicker than his head. He can come home to chipped gray walls and a crumbling ceiling, the faint smell of smoke and mothballs.

He can lay down, wrapped up in a torn navy comforter and _thoughts_ , thoughts meaningless, meaningless but sharp and gross and-

He should have went to college. Cody had potential, had ambition, had multiple acceptance letters. Had a life planned ahead of him, easy and long.

Why?

There should have been a reason.

\---

(he quits his job after a couple months. 

he’s had enough of listening to children happily inform their parents of their dreams, of how they’ll grow up rich and famous and they’ll come back to them with golden rings and luxury cars. he’s had enough of listening to college students meet with their parents, voices broken and pained as “it’ll be okay”’s fill their heads.

he wants to tell them that it won’t be okay. that it won’t work out in the end. that they really don’t have what it takes because, in the end, they just won’t even bother to _try_.

he does what he can do best instead.

cody packs up his bags and runs.)

\---

He starts traveling.

It’s not nearly as luxurious as it seems on Youtube. He’s got roughly a hundred bucks in savings, some clothes, a dusty harmonica, and an ever-present sense of dread, but it works out well enough. 

He spends some of his money on a decent-looking tent, some oatmeal, and a blanket. He sleeps where he can, where he feels safe enough. He constantly keeps moving, because it’s a little too easy to stay too long in one place.

But it’s a lot easier to not.

He walks everywhere he wants to go, because paying for a cab or riding the bus seems like something someone without a job should even be thinking about.

(he doesn’t think about how wrong it feels, because he chose to walk out, to _run_ , and he won’t let himself go back.)  
He doesn’t speak to anyone much anymore. After he left home, found a little room and a little job, he still had coworkers, friends. Even his landlord, the weathered Russian man with the heavy limp and broken nose, had begrudgingly spoken to him, albeit just to discuss his next payment.

He has nobody now. 

Nobody.

Nobody wants to speak to the man huddled in the corner of the convenience store, hoodie pulled up, dark bags lurking beneath darker eyes. It’s okay. It’s okay because he wouldn’t either, wouldn’t deign to speak to some filthy, probably half-crazed homeless man, especially in a shady area. 

It’s okay.

(if he keeps telling himself that, maybe it’ll be fine.)

\---

He finds himself sitting in a Starbucks much later, hoodie drawn up to cover his ragged bleached hair. It’s miniscule, tucked in between two big brownstones in a random part of a random town, but it’s presentable enough. 

Enough for him to not feel welcome.

But it’s warm, open past eleven, and mostly empty, so he huddles at a spot near the counter and blows absentmindedly on his harmonica. 

He can hear the heavy hand of the grandfather clock, counting down the remaining time of another meaningless, meaningless day. 

There is nothing here.

He knows. He knows. He’s tried his hardest to ignore it, to pass it by, but the thought, furious and rash, has sunk its devilish teeth into his mind. He can’t shake it. So it’s there. Ever present, ever painful.

He can’t run anymore. He has to find something, _anything_ , to stay for.

But what?

He closes his eyes, takes a shaky breath.

He _shouldn’t_ run. He knows he shouldn’t, really, but his brain’s aching and he can’t feel. He takes another breath, shudders, because he shouldn’t, he shouldn’t, and he said he can’t but he knows he can just pick up his feet and never stop, and it’d just be so _easy-_

“Hey.”

The beast’s teeth relent. 

He breathes again, looks up. 

There’s a man roughly his age, skin slightly darkened in a shade that he can’t place at all, leaning over the counter. A black apron is tied around his neck - the barista. Another breath and he takes in dark stubble, kind features, startlingly green eyes.

“We’re closing in ten,” he says simply. “Or now, if...y’know.”

He hasn’t ordered anything.

“Oh.” His voice is surprisingly hoarse. He feels guilty for holding this guy up, even though he needs the heater as long as he can get it.

(that’s okay. at least it’s something.)

“I’ll have, uh, a frappuccino?” he offers, and he really doesn’t have enough money for an overpriced drink that he doesn’t remember the name of, but he feels _bad_ and his mouth always works before his brain does.

“Just … a frappuccino.” The man pauses, grins. “Does that mean I get to choose?” His voice is deep and smooth, like a slow sip of molasses.

He blinks. He should’ve just left.

He can feel his lips quirking instinctively up. A flash of pretty white teeth, and he’s gone. He’s been told he has a particular taste.

“Sure, man.” He doesn’t really care about what kind of sugar they pump into his drink - it’ll leave the same hole in his wallet, but at least it’ll keep the heater on for a couple more minutes. 

The barista nods, turns away to fiddle around with fancy machinery. After about a minute he asks, “So, you’re chill with an Ultra Caramel Frappuccino with three pumps of extra caramel syrup and a caramel drizzle?”

He says it in one breath, takes Cody’s straight out of his mouth.

He doesn’t want to pay for extra shit - drizzles and pumps and whatnot. Nor does he want to spend roughly five bucks on the worst mouthful of sugar they have to sell.

But he’s looking at Cody with the brightest smile he’s seen in _ages_ , so he laughs and says, “Alright.”

(maybe things are.)

\---

(they end up staying there for two more hours, chatting slow and easy as he warms up to conversation again. 

the barista - noel - ends up giving him four dollars and sixty cents just because ‘you look like you need it.’ 

cody should be offended, but he takes it anyways. it’s a lot more than he could’ve ever asked for.

noel ends up frowning when cody calls his drink ‘white chicken shit.’

he ends up drinking the whole thing.)

\---

It’s a little too easy to stop running.

He’s not really a Starbucks guy, but he ends up visiting the same store again. Because he doesn’t have anything else to do, of course, and Cody’s planned to stay in this town for another week or so. The store’s warm, and they don’t seem to have anything against loitering.

Plus, Noel’s there. His shift starts at six-thirty (because he has an internship and actual things to do).

He waits.

When Noel starts work the day after they meet, he looks surprised. Cody regrets coming.

But he smiles, slow and easy like everything else about him, and strikes up conversation around the hustle and bustle of new customers.

Cody smiles, too.

\---

It’s a little too easy to fall into routine.

Cody ends up visiting everyday.

Noel’s there. 

Plus, the store’s warm.

\---

“You know Spock - he just left, he works here in the afternoon - told me you wait all day for me here?” 

Oh, God.

He should’ve gone to hang out somewhere else, he shouldn’t have acted like such a creep just for some shiny teeth, some shiny eyes, fuck, he’s such a colossal moron-

“I know I’m special, but _damn._ Such a creep, Cody.”

He smiles again.

Cody melts.

\---

Cody stays for a month. It’s long, for his standards, but he forgets to leave.

He thinks he’s okay with it.

(at least, every time he looks at noel’s smile, noel’s smooth hands, noel’s green, green eyes-

he thinks he’s found something worth staying for.)

\---

It’s starting to hurt his chest when he looks at Noel.

He thinks it’s happiness. Something like that.

(if it’s happiness, why can’t he get his eyes off his lips?)

\---

It’s late. Later than usual.

But it’s a weekend - he’s in on an extra shift - and Noel doesn’t have work in the morning. 

They talk, they talk and Cody eats way more fresh pastries and sweet drinks than he can pay for, but Noel says it’s fine. It shouldn’t be, but it is.

“You know, you’ve never told me what you do.”

Cody gulps. Here it comes. The fall of the executioner's blade. He stopped running, and it finally caught up to him.

It took long enough, anyways. He should’ve expected it sooner, but Noel isn’t the type to ask too many questions.

He could always lie. But why do something just because you can?

Cody’s not a liar, anyways.

“I’m - I’m fucking _homeless_ , dude,” he spits out. Averts his gaze, gets up from his stool at the counter. 

He knows the stigma about homeless people. 

“I - I know it’s - pathetic, or whatever. I’ll just go.” He wishes it wasn’t as dramatic as it sounds, turns to leave.

Warmth blooms at his wrist. He looks down, and there are fingers, fingers wrapped around. 

He blinks. Takes a long breath.

“Woah, man. Are you fuckin' kidding me? I don’t give a shit if you’re out of job.”

Breathe.

“It’s chill. Although it explains why you act like a motherfuckin' raccoon, Cody.” He cracks another smile.

Cody.

Breathe.

He turns, gaze heavy, and swallows. Takes a step forwards, gripping the counter with both hands.

Noel watches his Adam’s apple bob up and down.

He leans forwards, slow and easy.

Cody’s done running.

\---

(cody feels okay when their lips press.

then it’s not okay. it’s _more_ , somehow, and he curls his fingers around the collar of noel’s flannel, pulls him closer when he feels his lips respond, move in return.

it’s giving him warmth, warmth, and he’s never felt better before. it’s - it’s brilliant, it’s coming home to a place you never knew existed, it’s finding peace and solace in little things, it’s taking a breath when you thought you couldn’t, it’s the faint smell of smoke and mothballs and cody can’t think, can’t think of anything better in the world.

noel ends up laughing halfway through.

cody pulls back, confused more than anything, and blinks.

‘sorry, man, i was just thinking about telling spock that the way i got you to kiss me was to talk about you being a fuckin' hobo.’

he blinks again. then laughs. noel does too.

the sound echoes around the store.

it’s more than okay.)

\---

Cody doesn’t know if he ever was running away from something.

He thinks he was running _towards_ something instead.

**Author's Note:**

> title from wallows - pictures of girls.
> 
> writing oneshots is interesting, wanted to try it out


End file.
